And Am I Born to Die?
by gravothermalcatastrophe
Summary: Some thoughts on what Eowyn and Aragorn might have struggled with, and how they might have helped each other understand.


**I Am Only Dreaming**

It was the violence that impressed her. The almost un-proportional way his hands gripped her shoulders, the heat that made the mirrors flame and bedsheets steam. The way her dress was flung down off those tightly held shoulders and her arms her waist her thighs her breasts caressed under those same hot hands. Didn't matter that a mirror smashed as she tripped backing up against a wall.

Unh. What? She shook her head, groggy against the white linen, in an attempt to clear it of its warmth. The dream faded almost immediately upon awakening, but the lingering fingerprints of violence stayed with her, and a ghostly vehemence still invaded the recesses of her body as she moved through the day. Just like The Day. The Day, only two days passed now, that they were to march to Helm's Deep, and the day she tried to once again fight the rising sense of panic because she was being left behind. Dressed quickly, she had gone in search of the head steward to prepare matters for the soldiers and those, swallowing, left behind. The weak. The infirm. The Women. Eowyn. Unconsciously she did not place herself in the same category as woman. Throughout her childhood the mores of men, and warriors and kings at that, had been with her, and she had always thought of herself in juxtaposition to them. To admit herself as a woman would be to associate herself with weakness. Perhaps that was why the dream bothered her. For although in it she was strong and blood and skin ran red she was so much, so definitively, a woman.

He had wanted her. That strain of thought was undeniable in his dream. Not the way he wanted Arwen, in the steadfastness of forever, in the twilight terms where his love and hers blended with the nightsky in preparation for their eventual parting. There was none of that in _this_ dream. He hadn't cared about the next day, the next moment. Only now had mattered, only smooth shoulders that strained and wrapped against him, hair that tangled and which he couldn't help but pull in an attempt to get close to the woman. It was mortal passion, and he tried to detach himself from it. After all, growing up, if only for a short while, in the Last Homely House where stars and water and woods fell around each other in beauty, raised with elves and taught he was hope for weak mankind that was falling apart at its human seams, he unconsciously thought that he must raise himself from that. Not commit the crimes of his forebears. Stand alone in the firmament worthy of even elven recognition.

"My lord Aragorn." No, she was not one of those females that couldn't pull themselves together over a man. No, she mustn't be! And she hoped now, if she saw him again, she would have the strength to say only that and resist the memory of the dreams.

"Lady." If he saw here again he would pretend that he could scarcely remember the dream. Dreams were ephemeral, of course, and white thighs that would soon turn to ash and disappear could not matter.

Then they had gone their separate ways on That Day, and the business of the day quickly engulfed them. It was a relief sometimes to be so busy that personal thoughts cannot invade, that one can plunge headfirst into duty and let ones heart fall by the wayside. Commotion and clatter followed them That Day, spears being gathered and scrapings of chests and holdings shifted. Hundreds of voices amplified in the halls, the chink of metal and neigh of horse. Even Eowyn could pretend she was caught up in it, to go riding and save the world. Eomer. Brother. Real emotion in her voice. For what if truly, her darling brother returned not with his shield, but upon it? Eomer, fare thee well, my brother.

Little sister. And caressed her hair, kissed it and lest his hand tremble it gripped its sword in one hand and reins in the other, swinging himself upon the saddle as the light burned in the blue sky.

And then the action had dropped. Yes, now there were many things still to see to. Where would all the women go? Sanitary concerns must not be forgotten. Food stores must be organized. But there was the knowledge that under her efficient hand there would soon be too much time, time to think of _him_.

He did not think of her. Not until night, until the few hours of rest that remained to the company before the last ride to Helm's Deep. He tried to imagine her as he had seen her first, gold-white in the pale light of Meduseld, wooden and still among the carvings, as if she would be one of them. But this image did not stir him. It could not match the matchless beauty of the Evenstar under the precise stars and her glow in the black waters of night. So, guiltily in the last moments before emptiness overtook him his mind went back to his dream. The bright and reeling flashes; she had made sounds she wasn't aware of as he gripped her waist and pulled it to him. Gods, what was he trying to achieve? She was human…

**What am I Really Fighting For?**

The Horn of Helm Hammerhand sounded in the deep, and the sound was good to hear. It blew into the hearts of all the men, and in their final aching moments gave them strength to lift up their swords again. In this battle the Rohirrim would achieve immortality against the sweeping tides which would have them erased and forgotten in the new world order. It would not remember but in glorious song the fallen. It could not remember, the history books, the way the men wept and bled and excreted upon the mud. When weakness flowed from them, as the women had to hold strong in the caves. They held what the men fought for, in their rough hands. Their children close, and tensed themselves for the order that might come to run further into the mountains. They became the roots of the mountains that despite, held strong throughout the night into the dawning.

Aragorn! Eomer came and laid a weary but proud hand on his shoulder. In his grin was all he couldn't find the words to say. Yes, they had lived through the night when others had succumbed. They were still alive.

Across the many miles in the steep slate hills that clustered too close there was also weariness, but it expressed itself in the whistling wing and the coughs and shufflings of many people gathered under the Dwimmorberg's shadow.

"Lady Eowyn! How should we arrange for the arrival of the Rohirrim fighters?" As if I were not one of them…repressing the thought.

"There is more than enough room on the plain. Let them be ordered in the measure of the land. The Riders from the Eastfold on the east bank, the others following." The steady undercurrent through all these discussions ran; perhaps there will be no need for such planning. Perhaps there will be no Riders to come. But no, Eowyn pushed away the thought. In the past few days she was the Lord of these here lands, marshalling the people from the fastness of Edoras through the mountains into Dunharrow. A tale that will probably never be told. Not of the cold and the sick and sharp fear in the gloaming between the windy hills. In these past days the heat which the Lord Aragorn had swelled in her was beginning to fade. Maybe I can still conquer it yet.

That evening the swift rolling of horses feet was heard twisting up the mountainside. Eowyn did not need to be informed of this fact; she was already standing out overlooking the rolling hills and peering as much as she might to pierce those miles from the battlefield. Now, as she looked down, she knew who they were. Despite her earlier resolutions her heart rammed in her throat and her knees felt oddly watery. What had happened?! Whatwhatwhatwhat?

Her eyes shone as she heard the tales told of bravery and valor. She could almost pretend she was among them in the mud. But she must value what she did here. How many could do this – organize and keep safe and make everything run smoothly though the end might be marching at the very moment? To keep going not knowing to what end? Briefly, she thought of every woman that had given up a son or brother, father or lover to these battles. Ah, but…

He glanced at her throughout the evening, relieved that his…lust (grimacing inwardly) did not stir. No, he felt…empathy for her loneliness. Empathy for a fellow warrior who must stay home from the fight. He strove to give her as full descriptions as he could muster through his exhaustion. But unease grew in him as he knew he would have to explain the real reason for his appearance. "There is a road out of this valley, and this road I shall take. Tomorrow I shall ride the Paths of the Dead."

She came to him as a glimmer in the night. It is not my intent to beg, this I tell myself. I…I must not beg. Her heart thrummed in her throat as she determined to stand her ground. "Aragorn – why will you go on this deadly road?" Yes – a question. Make him see reason. "For all this is but to say I am a woman, and my part is in the house. And yet you think yourself not a man – you think you are immortal, for they do not suffer the living to pass. They will not suffer you to pass, for how can they accept you if you do not first accept who you are?" The vehemence grew in her voice and ended on a high note, thrusting this question at him, perhaps drawn out from her against her will.

I look at her, and her questions – I do not like to think of them. They are not true. She is just a child; look at her! She speaks of knowing who I am, yet she cannot either accept her part. But he no longer knew how much believed those words. Truly, do we know what paths we are treading? Or are we letting desire and tradition and all those heavy arms press us forward unto some unknown fate?

But these feelings of doubt Aragorn did not let show on his face. He was determined to show only a gentle and empathetic pity as his hand swept her cheek. Determined, in some perverse fashion, to do what he thought noble and to let her really think he thought her a child.

But that night Aragorn dreamt once again of fire, of his man and her woman breaking upon their flames. The wind played upon the mountainside the dusky notes of loneliness, and it ran on to lands unknown. It followed the bending grasses, and the ice-fingered rushes. It covered the moon in its smoke, and carried with it Eowyn's heart. Oh, it tugged at everything she kept inside and spread it to be caught by evening's tide. So it was that in dawn, when the Company of those elves, dwarves, and men who did not wish to be men were to set forth, she fell upon her knees and said, "I beg thee!"

Oh, I saw her tonight. My beautiful Arwen, endless as that moon. More beautiful than even Luthien, more beautiful than the swell of breaking hearts, for she is constant. I must be constant, too. His heart rose up, it prowed its curves against the ocean to be in the sky. Except, Eowyn's words and her face that would not be hidden, turned aside, or pitied, stuck, and his ship faltered in the tide. And for not the first time, but the first time that this doubt so fiercely struck his protective walls, he wondered at the measure of a man. At the measure of him – what was he? A _Man_?

One, one more ride to be endured. So what? Let them be all left behind in the dust, for she would ride to the glory and the world's ending, she would slay the bars themselves, and those who did not even try to stop her but assumed it was her place to halt, well they would have to respect her ride at last. Eowyn thought thus as she strapped on her armor and covered herself, piece by piece, until she looked no different from the men. Until the only thing that differentiated her were her eyes, grey and in search of death. I will yet prove that what they think about Woman is wrong.

**What am I Really Fighting Against?**

Dread began to seep in her from all sides, and her heart made time stand still as she faced the Witch King; faithless from many lives ago. She might have said – all my life I have waited for this – to prove what I am worth. I am worth just as much as a man, can do it just as good as a man, can fight and bleed and live. She might have gloried in this opportunity to die in a glint of blood and mail and be sung of along with other men-heroes if songs were ever to be sung again after this battle. But she did not. Strangely, she did not want Dernhelm to kill this Nazgul, this empty menace as it raised its deadly mace against those unhappy grey eyes. No. She would die as a woman. She had lived as a woman. She had cried and fought, been measured and judged, all as a woman. Why not die as one now?

"But I am no man! Eowyn am I, Eomund's daughter!" The challenge, torn from her throat came with some desperate grin. Woman! She was proud of being Eowyn, and if Eowyn came with breasts and prejudgements upon her, then she was glad to die with them, a final revenge against those who would see her doing…doing whatever else they thought she was supposed to do. Eowyn I am!

Dread began to seep in him from all sides, and his heart made time stand still as he faced the Dead King; faithless from many lives ago. He stared into that wreck of a face, of a form. He wasn't even human any more. But he was. Aragorn, that is. I am Aragorn, and I am a human man. I have lived my life in the world of elves, and I love Arwen, but part of me loved them because they were what I strove to achieve. I loved the idea of forever.

But there is no elf in all the world that can face down the King of the Dead. And even a small part of him felt pity for this human cursed into immortality, where every day brought memory of his and his peoples' betrayal. I do not want immortality. And neither does he who bars the way before me. He raised Anduril, Flame of the West, sword of the Kings of Men and looked into the eyes of what he now understood. "You _will_ obey me. You _will_ follow this _man_."

**Why Do You Love Me?**

Eowyn of Rohan, woman, looked at Faramir of Gondor, man. They were standing in Minas Anor, Tower of the Sun. The constant murmur of multitudes below rose up like the comforting sounds of bees and a breeze blew from the west. The lands were turning green, and she knew in Rohan the streams would be gushing with winters melted plenty and the fresh green grass buds would be shooting from the earth. Spring was here, and it certainly knew what to do. But Eowyn, as was often the case, was in doubt. Here was a good man. But what did 'good man' matter if she could not love him? If she desired another? His face was looking at her so honestly, and had cast away the barriers that people so often cover their true emotions with. His eyes, dark deep grey were simply gazing at her face, and his love was just written there for her to see. She wondered what he saw in hers. What even did she see in her face? There, fighting the Witch King, she had begun to understand herself, or at least thought she did. But in waking up, cause unfulfilled and forced to roam the white walled city again she did not know.

I wish to be loved by another.

I know. Because he was high and puissant, and you wished to be lifted from the mean things that crawl this earth…but even if you were the blissful Queen of Gondor, still would I love thee!

…To be lifted from the mean things that crawl this earth. Yes, it's true. Because…because I saw myself as one of those things. Because I was of no use to myself or others in the way I wanted. A strong breeze pushed by her face, and she heard the sound of bells cut through her thoughts. But why…should I scorn myself? Why should I be a small and mean thing? She thought of Aragorn, the King. And her heart caught at the thought at his power, his beauty, and at the knowledge that she would be putting him to rest. A part of her cracked a little, and a lopsided smile tugged at her mouth. But Eowyn would no longer shirk from herself, and what she felt. Life was asking for her, but it would not wait. She gave Faramir her hand and knew that she was ready. For what? She did not exactly know. But she was ready, just as she was.

She came on Mid-Summer's Eve, and she was it. But Aragorn's stomach was still in knots that got worse as the sun descended and the honeysuckle drifted into the grooves of the faintly gleaming white stone. What…what was he doing? Did he deserve her…an elf? Had he yet accomplished enough? He didn't think so. Maybe there is something else I have to do I don't know I…took a breath to steady himself, and adjusting his garb yet again. He had to get out. Strode onto the balcony and gazed out onto the almost-night. The sea, leagues and leagues away glittered in the twilight. He gazed down at his hands and saw their cracks and wrinkles. He thought, for some reason, of Eowyn. Of this flame of hair and force and incredible breakability. And he wondered what his life might have been like if he had never wandered under the boles of Lorien, but instead first set his eyes on the throne in Meduseld. What if…and then he remembered something she had said that night in Edoras: for how can they accept you if you cannot first accept who you are? As the clouds turned into pearl, he was…he didn't know if he would be a good king, or a good husband, or a good man, but he did know that he was Aragorn. And he loved Arwen Evenstar with all his heart and he wanted, so badly, to restore the honor to the Kingdom of Men. And this was, for now enough.

She was beautiful, and he knew she understood. He thinks, a part of her always did, as he kisses her under the stars and they are made as one. And briefly, before the rising of the moon, he thanks Eowyn, so different that they might be, for helping him understand.

**Peace Now, My Friend.**

"Wish me joy, my liege-lord and healer!"

"I have wished thee joy since first I saw thee. It heals my heart to see thee now in bliss."

The feast wore on in Edoras after the trothplighting and the return of kings, and the fires and breath of voices filled the air.

"The air is so close in this hall," said Eowyn, "but it gladdens my heart. I have not seen so much laughter in Meduseld for too long. You will excuse a wild north-maiden if she desires the fresh air for a moment, won't you?"

The love in Faramir's eyes struck her heart and her throat constricted. She squeezed his hand and murmured, "I'll be right back."

It was a quiet little hilltop a bit farther away from the steam and the happy drunken notes of revelers. Eowyn breathed deep. She looked at her body in the moonlight, her white dress. Her hands, not delicate but recovering from the cuts and bruises. Her hair, silver and its knots glinting unevenly in the moonlight. Her feet, too large in their bound slippers. Her breasts that swelled through the dress-fabric as they could not have done in their mail. A woman, wry smile creeping up her lips. Definitely a woman. Might as well make the best of it, eh Eowyn?

"Why are you here, my lady, and not enjoying the celebrations? Aragorn, seeking the same air, joined her side.  
"Same reason that you are, King Elessar. Drunken horse lords are like sweet wine: full of flavor, but best in small quantities and almost certain to give you a headache."

King Elessar smiled. He looked down at that chapped hand. Impulsively he took it, and felt some need clambering around in his chest; the desire to make sure everything was alright, and that he didn't mean to hurt her and was sorry that he couldn't have made her happy and he would so have wanted to be able to and – his thoughts stopped as she gave his hand a squeeze, and reached up to kiss his brow. He was about to start up, but stopped as her lips touched his forehead.

"Aragorn – it is alright." Smiles broadly. "We are human – we are the most flawed of all this earth's creation, but – but at least we know it. And we can rise above it."

For the last time, that night Aragorn dreams of heat and flames. The tangle of limbs and the exquisite pain of wanting only that moment, of needing just then. But it did not end as her sounds cracked the dream night in two; Eowyn looked into his eyes and smiled. And he smiled back, and the man made love to the woman, and the pain finally ebbed. When he woke to Arwen, there was no ache left in his heart.

**And For Us; Beyond the Circles of This World**

It is not written what the last occasion was that King Elessar had to see the White Lady before she passed, all too soon, from Middle-Earth into the realms beyond any cage she might have ever feared. If there had been any such recording, it could only describe the meeting between a woman and a man, and the words that could pass between two people. Let us say then just simply, that he held her hand, her brave and wrinkled hand and that she kissed his brow, and there were no more words. There were only their eyes, green and grey like the ocean and the windwaves of grass, locked together and saying: you taught me that I was human, and helped show me who I am, oh my friend. We do not need to be immortal; our stories will do that for us. And as we die, you and I, us humans, we will ride together beyond the realms of this world.


End file.
